


this is not forgiveness

by hoosierbitch



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Community: kink_bingo, Fight Sex, M/M, Punishment, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 23:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he were the kind of person who got sad instead of angry he would have died when he was nine and his fingernails were breaking on the last rocky inch of solid ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [this is not forgiveness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2681024) by [kaiSSa666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiSSa666/pseuds/kaiSSa666)



> This was written for the penance/punishment square of my kink bingo card!

Helmsmen McKenna dies on a Thursday. A Thursday like so many other days on the Enterprise. They were assigned a mission and given inadequate intel, they encountered hostile locals, a misunderstanding was blown out of proportion, magnified by mutual fear and distrust. And then breathless voices shouted through the comm. _Weapons fired._ The familiar drone of the alarm where there used to be a heartbeat.

Business as usual.

It’s Jim’s fault. And he knows that. He took that responsibility onto his shoulders with his commendation and new uniform. It’s his ship, and it’s his crew, so it’s his fucking failure. His tall awkward helmsman dead two weeks before his thirty-first birthday.

On the days when things go wrong, they meet in Jim’s room. Because Spock’s chambers are full of delicate, precious things. Family mementoes and cultural heirlooms, traditional weapons and art he’s collected from dozens of different worlds.

Jim’s rooms are practically empty. Nothing of value to break.

They meet there after their shift ends. Spock stands by the desk and waits, and Jim painstakingly edits the generic notification letter. Inserts the correct name and rank and cause of death, signs his name at the bottom, includes some bullshit anecdote that makes helmsman McKenna sound like a hero instead of someone who just didn’t quite duck fast enough.

It feels like lying. Like a joke. Feels so damn inadequate. But he’s got nothing else to offer – just Starfleet’s sincere condolences and expedited shipping of the remains to the family’s destination of choice.

Jim takes a deep breath. And helpless rage spreads through his body like nausea, like adrenaline, the taste of bile creeps into the back of his mouth and everything sharpens before his eyes.

He sends the letter, turns off his computer, and Spock braces himself.

They’re not equals. Not on the bridge, and not here. On the bridge Spock obeys his orders, and in Jim’s room he returns every punch with twice as much force and better aim. He twists Jim’s arms behind his back and knocks him into walls, kicks the back of his knees and slams his face against his desk, uses Jim’s momentum and weight against him and doesn’t even break a sweat.

It’s ritual. By now. Jim fights, as hard as he can, with tooth and nail and everything in between, uses every dirty trick he’s ever been taught and then some more because he’s desperate and Spock’s so much fucking stronger than he is. And Spock – Spock just raises his eyebrow. And knocks him aside. Taunts him with the mere fact of his physical superiority, presses every button Jim’s got and then smirks when he reacts.

By the time Spock gets them from the main room to the bed Jim’s got blood in his mouth and one eye’s swollen shut, fractured ribs and a strained knee, and it’s not nearly enough.

Spock’s hands wrap around his wrists. Tight enough to grind the bones together. His long, thick cock is pressed against Jim’s ass and his teeth are digging into Jim’s neck, pressing his face into the mattress. It’s not nearly enough. Because Jim’s been a failure since the day he was born.

Everyone in Riverside told him that he was just like his father. Sam, who had known him for five years more than Jim had, said that Jim was a sell-out. Not a real Kirk. A failure. And Jim – well. Jim had no evidence to the contrary.

Since Riverside, since Iowa, since Christopher Pike, he’s been trying to remake himself. Three years and a new uniform and friends who don’t associate his name with his rap sheet.

But some days – some days, things get fucked up, and all eyes turn to him. And he doesn’t know what else he possibly could have done – as a captain or a son or a brother – but he knows that if he’d done it right, done it better, _been_ better – been a real Kirk or more obedient or smarter or faster, if he’d just been someone else – but he’s not.

All eyes turn to him and the anger spreads inside of him like lava, erupting from the bottom of his gut and through his roiling stomach, to his tense shoulders and his clenched jaw, culminating in the burn behind his eyes that feels more like fire than tears.

Because if he were the kind of person who got sad instead of angry he would have died when he was nine and his fingernails were breaking on the last rocky inch of solid ground.

So he pushes back and pushes harder, twists his body underneath Spock’s, bites the hand that’s covering his mouth and kicks at the legs that twine with his, holding him open. Spock just moves his hand to cover his nostrils, too, cuts off his air and waits until black spots dance in the corner of Jim’s vision. Takes advantage of Jim’s disorientation to pull his shirts up over his head and undo the clasp on his slacks.

Jim head-butts him and Spock _hmms_. Spock fucking _murmurs_ at him like he’s some sort of interesting science experiment, like there’s not an enormous hard-on tenting his pants and green blood dripping from his split lip.

In the next second Spock’s got them turned around, got Jim pressed up against the wall, unzipping his own pants and tearing Jim’s off of his body with sheer goddamn force. Then Spock spreads his hands under Jim’s bare thighs and lifts him off the ground.

And Jim’s – Jim’s not done fighting. But sometimes. Sometimes Spock will fuck him like it’s a challenge. A competition. Jim and Spock versus the world. And sometimes – sometimes, Jim will let him. On nights like tonight. When he feels hollowed out by bitter memories, when he can still taste the empty apologies on his tongue like lies, the drone of McKenna’s monitor echoing in his ears.

He wraps his legs around Spock’s waist and lets his head fall against his shoulder. He can already feel the head of Spock’s cock at his hole, slick with precum. It’s a good thing Spock’s not entirely human, because if he were, then fucking Jim without lube would probably kill him. It still hurts. Because Spock’s fucking _huge_, and no amount of precum, however unnatural it is, can ease the burn of it.

The first time this happened, Jim had thought that Spock probably viewed it as some sort of duty. He was taking care of his captain, and it stopped there.

But his lips curl back when he fucks inside Jim’s body with one solid shove. His hands knead at Jim’s hips like cat’s claws, he bites at the marks he’s left on Jim’s neck until they bleed. He doesn’t need it for the same reason, but he still needs it. Wants it. Wants Jim, like this, bleeding and open and at his mercy.

And Jim takes every pain and every burn and every bruise, every shockwave of pleasure that wrecks his muscles, every bit of honesty that Spock steals from his body, and digs his fingernails into Spock’s skin like he’s Jim’s last inch solid ground.

And he can’t think of any reason he should stop fighting. Except – except Spock licks around the teethmarks on his skin. And whispers his name when Jim tightens around him, thrusting in counterpoint to Spock’s movements because there’s no way he’s going to make this _easy_ for Spock, no way he’s going to let Spock be in control, not unless he’s earned it.

Spock’s room is full of precious things and Jim’s is empty. And when Jim’s got more violence than humanity in his body, Spock takes him. Over his desk and against the wall and on the floor, fights him and fucks him until he’s too tired to move, too tired to come any more, too tired to hold back the tears burning behind his eyes.

And when Jim’s boneless and sore, covered in semen and sweat and blood both green and red, Spock lets himself come. And Jim holds him through his orgasm. The long, shaking thrusts of it, the hot liquid spreading deep inside his body.

They fuck in Jim’s rooms but they sleep in Spock’s. It’s hot, and dry, but they always end up in Spock’s bed, underneath the quilts that Amanda made for him when he left for Starfleet, with the picture of Spock’s parents sitting on the bedside table. There’s nothing to break in Jim’s rooms except for Jim. And everything in Spock’s rooms is precious.


End file.
